


Beneath the Stains of Time

by silver_sun



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-27
Updated: 2011-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:36:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_sun/pseuds/silver_sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His life is nothing but an existence measured in death. Rather angsty and depressing musings from Jack post Exit Wounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beneath the Stains of Time

Title: Beneath the stains of time.  
Characters: Jack  
Summary: His life is nothing but an existence measured in death.  
Spoilers: Indirectly for Exit Wounds.  
Writers note: Although not a song fic per se this was inspired by the Johnny Cash cover of the song NIN Hurt.

* * *

Wearily Jack strips off his torn and blooded shirt, feeling the snag and pull of the material where its dried and suck against his skin.

It's the only thing that feels real.

Gwen had shouted at him today, had called him a fool and asked him if he ever thought before charging headlong into the fray. While Ianto had just given him one of his tired, hurt looks that manage to convey so much more than mere words ever could, before turning slowly away. He knows what they mean, both of them saying the same in their own way, that they think he's being too careless with his life.

He doesn't know how he could even begin to explain to them that it's only on days like this, the chase, the fight and if he's honest even the dying and that first pain-bright gasp of life returning that reminds him that he's still alive at all.

And even if he could find the words he knows that he would not speak them. He would lie with a smile on his face because it is the least he can do. They already know how wrong he is, they don't need to see just how much further he's fallen or what he's become: Nothing more than a shell that goes on living because he doesn't know how to die. His life nothing but an existence measured in death.

Naked, he stands in the shower, palms pressed flat against the wall, his head bowed, he lets the water wash over him. Not that it will help, there's not enough water in the world to wash away dirt and blood and regret that stains his hands and soul.

No, he's stained by time itself, and nothing can erase it, nor will anything make it better, because there is nothing that can. Too much time had passed and everyone and everything has moved on, and only he remains. Even the Doctor isn't the same.

There is no change for him, no going back, no ending happy or otherwise, just the constant ever changing present which he's been condemned to live without end, watching years and friends pass, wither and turn to dust.

He tilts his face into the shower's spray, denying the existence of any wetness there but the fast flowing water, and tries to forget what he's let himself become.


End file.
